Category
Poems
Poetry, by me and favourites by others.
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12.08.02Loving Me NotThey have taken away the chair where you would have sat My fingers are cold wrapped around an overpriced coffee The waiter asks if I need the bill and I am still waiting to begin (Perhaps you have forgotten perhaps dead, or asleep) The busy smooching of valentines cloy the air and I have picked your rose bare you are not here I silently gather my warrior words and wait © 2/1992, Meg Pickard.
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12.08.02At Breakfastthis morning, i was eating a juicy ripe tomato as if it was a shiny apple, revelling in the tartness, enjoying the sensation of pips gliding slowly down my chin and i looked at you across our complicated lives, strewn across the breakfast table and imagined how, if our roles were reversed, i would simply come over and lick the juice from your chin and kiss every pip away in the cold morning light i took another bite, invitingly and you smiled and passed me a napkin before returning to the crossword i did not wipe the table when i left but i have a cross word for you
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08.14.02WaitingWell, this is interesting. A kind soul wrote to let me know that a person going by the nick "Irishlass" has posted a rather winsome poem on the arts and literature forum on a site called facethejury.com. Here's the poem in full. I'm sure she won't mind if I post it here:They have taken away the chair where you would have sat My fingers are cold wrapped around an overpriced tea The waiter asks if I need the bill and I am still waiting to begin (Perhaps you have forgotten perhaps dead, or asleep) The busy smooching of valentines cloy the air and I have picked your rose bare you ...
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11.04.00Remembering FireworksAlways as if for the first time, we watch the fireworks as if no-one had ever done this before, made shapes, signs cut diamonds on air, sent up stars nameless, imperious. And in the falling of fire, the spent rocket, there is a kind of nostalgia, as normally only attaches to things long known and lost. Such an absence such emptiness of sky the fireworks leave after their festival. We, fumbling for words of love, remember the rockets the spinning wheels, the sudden diamonds and say with delight "Yes, like that, like that" Oh and the air is full of falling stars surrendered. We search for a sign. Elizabeth Jennings
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10.04.00Ode to a Washing MachineTomorrow is national poetry day in the UK, apparently. In honour of this, I invite you to submit your haiku, limericks, rhyming couplets, sonnets shameless pastiches and epic verses on the subject of blogs and blogging. Best submissions (in my easily-biased opinion) win a poetic gift of my choosing, and I'll probably whack up some sort of chapbook here. Be inspired!
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